


Memento mori

by jspringsteen



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jspringsteen/pseuds/jspringsteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Speirs and Lipton talk about life and death in the Bois Jacques.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento mori

"Memento mori." As my boots sloshed through the layers of snow and I swatted at my shoulders to keep them warm, the two words kept rolling through my mind. Remember, you're going to die. I was making the rounds along our line, or what was left of it, and passed foxholes with dead men in them, who were blue in the face but seemed at peace. Even though he wasn't yet able to evacuate them, Doc Roe had closed all their eyes. In the gloomy ignorance of what was to come, the eternal vigilance for the whistle of a shell and the crack of a splintering tree, which of us did not envy those who had seen a safe conclusion to their heroic adventure?  
I passed foxholes that had become craters when they were hit by shells. I passed foxholes with alive men in them, who were so still and pale that I would have thought them dead too if not for the tiny clouds of vapour that rose up from their mouths. It was still and dark; even the German flares were taking a respite.  
I kneeled down to talk to George Luz, who that day had seen Buck Compton to the aid station. Seeing a man like Buck break down under the strain could be the breaking point for anyone else. Luz and I had been lucky; stupidly, unbelievably lucky, to have had our foxhole hid by a dud. I could still hear the whistling sound and see the clods of dirt flying around when it landed; the wisp of smoke that rose from it as if it too was gasping for breath in the icy night, thankful to be here still. From that moment on, I resigned myself to death, which flitted among the trees like a vengeful dryad. "Memento mori". Luz waved me on my way, assuring me that he was fine, though when I got up and his eyes unfocused again I could see that stilted and mournful expression creep back in.  
I stepped into the officers' tent, expecting to find Winters and Nixon with their teeth chattering above a cup of surrogate coffee but instead seeing Captain Speirs, poring over a map. I stopped in the doorway. Though I wouldn't call myself familiar with Winters, I knew he didn't mind if I barged in with any news--but I didn't know Speirs very well, having never talked to him in private, and knowing of his unstable temper I thought it best to turn around and come back later. Just as I was setting off again, I heard the curt voice behind me: "First Sergeant Lipton!"  
I re-entered. Speirs looked up from his map. The undulating flame of a kerosene lamp in the icy gale blurred his features; his dark eyes reminded me of the frozen black pools I had passed in the forest earlier this evening.  
"Is something the matter?" He started pulling on his gloves, blowing a jet of vapour like smoke from his nostrils. I instinctively rubbed my arms. "No, sir. Just thought I'd check in. See if there's any news from Division."  
Speirs started to stack papers and folded the map, storing them in lockers under the desk. "No word. Just sit tight and hang tough." He glanced up at me, a sharp smile briefly crossing his mouth. He raised himself up again. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"  
I nodded. "Thank you, sir." While he set about melting ice in a skillet, I reclined on a wooden crate close to the lamp. As Speirs talked, in controlled units of speech--no frills and no words wasted on the unimportant--so his every action was quick and pragmatic. He wasted no time fiddling with the packet of instant coffee, but tore it open with his teeth; lit the match with a single flick and held it to the cube of Esbit, which started to sputter and smoke as the film of ice that had congealed it melted; produced two cups and a ration of chocolate as if he were setting up afternoon tea. He poured the coffee and I cradled the cup between my hands, grateful for the warmth, the smell, and the yellow light bouncing off the canvas walls, and felt like I had re-entered the world of the living after a furlough in hell frozen over.  
"How are the men, First Sergeant?" Speirs was looking at me through a column of steam rising from his cup.  
"They're good, sir," I answered, truthfully. "I ordered one man off the line who was gone, sir, but a couple days as a runner for Headquarters should do him good. The other men are ready to fight." An afterthought I didn't think would make it to my lips but did, added: "But they're also ready to get out of here."  
Speirs nodded. He was staring into his cup as if he could infer from the coffee grounds if that hope was to become a reality soon.  
"We, uh…we still haven't evacuated the dead, sir." I was begining to get unnerved by having to walk past the frozen bodies, and I could imagine how the men sitting in a foxhole a yard away from them must feel. We were living among the dead on borrowed time.  
Speirs was looking at me.  
"Do you pity them, First Sergeant?"  
I shook my head. "No, sir. I think they should be lucky that their endeavor has come to an end."  
He nodded, and gulped down his coffee. Wiping his mouth, he said: "When I went into this war, I accepted the fact that I was already dead."  
I ran my thumbs up and down the metal container in my hands. This was the most personal thing I'd ever heard him say.  
"Accept the fact that you're already dead. No mercy, no compassion, no remorse. You know that saying? 'Memento mori'? What they said in medieval times to remind themselves that they were basically dead already; no need to waste time making something of their lives. Just try to keep yourself out of hell."  
I nodded. "Yes sir."  
"But when I look around here..." He glanced at the entrance. What lingered in the air were no longer words curt and clipped like chips of ice, but words infused with something else. A warmth.  
"I see everybody has accepted the fact that they're already dead. Hell, men are sharing foxholes with corpses. Death is a mercy." He looked at me directly.  
"Do you believe it, First Sergeant? That the war depends on men who have given up hope of staying alive?"  
I thought of Skip Muck and Alex Penkala. Of Buck Compton and his fingers, coiled in his hair, his eyes empty. Of George Luz and Joe Liebgott, Don Malarkey and Babe Heffron, Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere. Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.  
"If this is life, sir..." I hesitated, but the words pushed themselves to the surface. "It's worse than death."  
Speirs smiled, a genuine smile that wiped some of the creases from his brow.  
"Then why are we still here, First Sergeant? Why hasn't every man here shot himself in the foot to get himself to a nice warm hospital, why haven't we surrendered to get it all over with, why do we sit in our foxholes, watching the line day after day after day?" I stared at my feet, overwhelmed by exhaustion. Why were we here? Because we had to be. The war depended on us.  
"Because we got to keep trying, sir," I replied, and raised my head to look him in the eye. "Because we can't give up. Because we're not gonna be here forever, and because it takes alive men, not dead men, to fight the Germans." As I was saying it, I sat up straighter, and felt my blood rush to my head.  
He nodded. "Because we have to keep trying." He stood up from his seat and walked over to the entrance, pulling aside the flap that served as a door. I understood that I had outstayed my welcome. I put down my cup and walked to the entrance. Just before I stepped out, he clapped a hand on my shoulder, and said: "Every man's life here matters, First Sergeant. Remember that." He gave me a squeeze, and with a gleam in his eyes he was gone. I was alone in the darkness and began to find my way back to my foxhole. I passed Christenson and Perconte in their hole having a hushed argument, and crouched down to talk to them.  
"Hey boys," I said. "Feeling okay?"  
"Lip," Perconte said, "you try tellin' Pat here that dental hygiene is an inTEgral part of keepin yourself alive, because he doesn't believe me."  
"Perco," Christenson laughed, "unless you're gonna blind the Germans by smiling at them, what's the use?"  
"I like my mouth clean and healthy, that's what! If you get a toothache that makes you wanna kill yourself, don't come cryin to me..."  
"Well, if you'd let me borrow some of your toothpowder..."  
"No way, are you kidding? I'm already runnin low."  
I left them to their squabbling, smiling as I zigzagged among the trees. The silence seemed to be pressing down on me a little less.


End file.
